


easy, killer

by ingwertee



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Domestic Gallavich, M/M, mentions of child abuse, mickey & the gallaghers, season 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-02
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-20 09:21:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22079665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ingwertee/pseuds/ingwertee
Summary: It’s Ian who fills the silence. “I sorta thought…” he rests a hand on Mickey’s cheek. “I sorta thought this got better. You know, in prison.”“This?”“You know,” Ian chooses his words carefully. “Someone wakes you up and you act like they’re tryna fight you.”___5 times Mickey wakes up scared + 1 time he doesn’t
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 31
Kudos: 473





	easy, killer

1

When he bursts through Ian’s bedroom window, freshly sprung from prison and running from the cartel, it’s not a question of a quick checkup with Gallagher and then back to the Milkovich home. Mickey’s not going back. He’s been in prison long enough. Going to his childhood home would feel like returning behind bars.

So when Gallagher grins and pulls Mickey to him, wrapping his arms around him to deepen their kiss, Mickey hopes he doesn’t have to ask to crash with him. He’s shit at asking for what he wants.

He’s in luck when Lip and Tami (who’s she? Did Lip knock her up accidentally or are they together? He’s missed so much) move into an RV next door, and he and Gallagher take over the newly vacated bedroom.

That first night, together in their own room, they don’t say much. Ian spends much of the evening downstairs, holding baby Fred, letting Lip and Tami get some rest. Mickey opts to stay in their room after dinner. He’s tired and doesn’t feel like talking to all those Gallaghers at once. He hears Frank come through the door at one point, speaking loudly about something or other, some new bullshit, and Mickey rolls his eyes. Stops staring out the window and decides he’s had enough. He turns off the lamp and settles under the covers.

It’s past one in the morning when Ian opens the door. Mickey’s out cold by then, spread out on his stomach, covers wrapped loosely around him. He doesn’t hear Ian enter their room, or when Ian kicks off his pants and shirt and pads over to their bed.

It’s when Ian rolls onto his side and slips an arm around Mickey’s waist that Mickey jolts awake. He’s pulled from nothing, from the emptiness of a dreamless sleep to the overwhelming feeling that he’s missed something, that they’re here for him – the cartel, Terry, anyone, really – and he’s taken too long to get his guard up. With a sharp intake of breath, Mickey jerks his arms backwards, fighting off the arms around him.

“Whoa, Mickey, hey—” It’s Ian who speaks, then, voice suddenly breaking through the darkness. Ian lets go of Mickey quickly, shifting away and giving his boyfriend space. “Mick, it’s me.”

It takes Mickey a moment – maybe because it’s dark, maybe because it’s his first night in a new room and he’s a little disoriented, but his concern soon gives way to relief, and then, just as quickly, guilt.

“Fuck,” Mickey says, the word tumbling out with a hasty exhale. “Fuck, Gallagher.” He rolls over to face him, heart beating wildly, wanting to apologize, to explain, to chide, something, but he can’t think of what to say first; he’s less so formed sentences, and more so just words, words he’d say all at once if he could, if he ever said what he wanted to when he wanted to. Instead, he reaches out a hand, fist unclasped, towards Ian. When he finally makes out Ian’s eyes in the dark and they lock eyes, Mickey shakes his head imperceptivity, attempting a smile which comes out more like a grimace. It’s meant as a reassurance. “Sorry,” he whispers.

Ian’s pulling him in again, first reaching out timidly and then all at once. Mickey lets him, tension leaving his shoulders as Ian pulls him closer.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” Ian finally speaks. He sounds just as guilty. Mickey closes his eyes. Shakes his head again, wanting to say something. Always wanting to say something.

It’s Ian who fills the silence. “I sorta thought…” he rests a hand on Mickey’s cheek. “I sorta thought this got better. You know, in prison.”

“This?”

“You know,” Ian chooses his words carefully. “Someone wakes you up and you act like they’re tryna fight you.”

Mickey feels himself tensing. Ian always likes to get to the goddamned heart of the matter.

“When it was just the two of us,” Ian braves on, voice gentle, “in that cell, you know, I, I sorta thought I coaxed you out of this.”

“’Coaxed,’ Jesus Christ,” Mickey scoffs. He shifts so that he’s on his back.

“I thought I at least helped.” Ian says. Mickey meets his eyes, sees that earnest, puppy-dog look.

Mickey sighs. “I know,” he admits. “You did. But we aren’t in fucking prison anymore.”

He can tell Ian has lingering questions, that there’s more on his mind, but Mickey doesn’t have the energy to get into it. “C’mere,” he says instead, tugging on Ian’s arm until they’re both on their sides and Ian’s wrapped around Mickey tight, like he intended all along. He feels Ian press a kiss to the back of his neck before he drifts off.

2

Listen, he’s not gonna say he’s never slept well. It wouldn’t be true. He sleeps plenty damn well when he’s sleeping off booze, drugs, a punch to the face. It’s not sleeping that’s the problem. It’s waking up. More specifically, it’s _being_ woken up. Don’t do that shit.

Those around Mickey learned pretty early on that waking Mickey up is like pulling the pin out of a grenade and then not running away fast enough. It’s not like Mickey ever went to any faggety-ass sleepovers as a kid, but if he had, he definitely would have knifed some poor kid when he tried to wake Mickey up the next morning.

Mickey’s just not programmed to let his guard down. He’s constantly on edge, quick to raise a fist and defend, defend, defend. It’s the sort of mindset one learns in the Milkovich home.

He’s not gonna pinpoint some childhood memory like some goddamn shrink and say that was that. That’s some quack bullshit. Besides, it’s not like he’s gonna pick one. Maybe he picked up the habit in juvie, who the fuck knows? It all sort of piles on, doesn’t it?

But he does remember one night more than the others. Asleep in his room, still in school then, still a kid. The door bursts open and Mandy’s there, the light from the rest of the house outlining her thin frame. She jumps into his bed without caring where she lands. Falls right on Mickey’s chest. The boy jerks awake, breath knocked out of him, struggling against his sister who cowers against him, clawing at him, terrified and desperate not to let go.

And then Terry’s there, enraged. Fists flying, screaming some bullshit Mickey can’t make out over Mandy’s screams.

Mickey’s awake but he’s still half asleep, and he can’t make out in the dark where one body ends and another begins. He hears himself screaming too, at one point, and sees his arms reach out, trying to push Terry back. It doesn’t work. Eventually Terry gets tired and leaves them be. The booze catches up to him, or the coke, or whatever the hell he’s on that night.

He didn’t do enough. He knows that. Mandy never came to him for help again after that. Mickey had long learned from his own attempts to hide under the wings of his brothers that it was useless, that in the Milkovich home, it’s every Milkovich for himself.

Years have passed since he was a kid in that house, shoulders tense, hands balled into fists. Never knowing when his father would turn on him. Shake him awake just to scream at him. Never knowing when he would burst through the door and how wasted he would be when he did. It’s been years, and Mickey’s hardened. It’s not easy to see the cracks in the walls he’s built around him, especially when his story matches so many on the South Side, and most people around him spend the bulk of their time looking for a synthetic escape from their shithole lives or ways to build their own walls higher, stronger. Too busy to stare Mickey down and really see through him.

The Gallaghers have a way of seeing Mickey for who he is, though. It scares the hell out of him sometimes.

3

He remembers once he almost clocked Fiona when she tried to wake him up.

He and Ian get back to the Gallagher home early that evening. It’s Liam’s birthday and the Gallaghers are in full-on party mode. Ian and Mickey had been sent to get the cake. Lip and Debbie were busy sorting through a box of decorations from years past and figuring out what was still useable. Carl was in the backyard, distracting Liam.

“Oh, good, you’re back.” Fiona says when the two return. She’s standing on a step stool and hanging up a banner. “Put the cake away and help me out, here, Ian.”

Ian does as he’s told, hurrying into the kitchen. Mickey stays behind in the front room, unsure. He gets that Gallaghers like to throw parties, but he’s never been a part of one before. He’s crashing with Ian now but he’s not sure if that merits his stringing up some ribbons. Mostly he just wants to head upstairs to the boys’ room. With everyone downstairs or outside he might finally be able to get some peace and quiet.

“Mick.” It’s Ian, who’s back in the front room. He smiles at Mickey. “You good, man?”

Mickey looks around at the Gallaghers, who are hard at work. “Fuckin’ great, man.” He says absently.

“Mickey, man, take a seat or something.” Lip says good-naturedly from his position on the ground. He hands some party hats to Debbie from the box. “We sorta got a system for this sorta thing. Wouldn’t want you fuckin’ it up.”

“Yeah, all right, fuck you, too,” Mickey says without any bite. He sits on the couch a little stiffly. Watches Fiona fold the step stool back up. Lip’s right, the siblings do have a system, and soon Debbie flits past him to get the presents hidden under the stairs.

Mickey settles into the couch, just a little, you know, not in an obvious way, but soon he crosses his arms over his chest and nods off.

It’s maybe forty minutes later when a slight tug on his arm causes Mickey to jerk awake, eyes flying open. He’s panicking – sleeping on a couch in the front room, open from all sides, what the fuck was he thinking – and he swings a fist at nothing in particular, determined to get the threat away from him. It’s a reflex. His hands ball up so fast he doesn’t even stop to think.

“Whoa, Mickey!”

Mickey freezes. His vision clears and he sees Fiona maneuvering away from him from a crouched position, rocking on the back of her heels. Her eyebrows are raised but she doesn’t seem particularly shocked. She’s probably faced worse from her own parents, Mickey thinks to himself.

“Fuck,” he lets out a stuttering breath and runs a hand along his face. He was so close to hitting her.

“Didn’t mean to startle you—” Fiona starts, and Mickey thinks he’s taking too long to get his heartbeat back down, thinks he’s making too much of a show of this, that it’ll be obvious that he was, for a moment, scared. Fear is weakness, he knows this like the back of his hand, so before Fiona can finish her sentence, he interrupts.

“It’s fine,” he says quickly, clearing his throat and adjusting himself so he’s sitting upright. “Fucking fine. Forget about it.” Forget I did that. Forget I did that. He lets out one more breath before he feels himself clicking back into place. He crosses his arms against his chest again and meets Fiona’s gaze. He ignores the knowing look she’s giving him.

“So,” Fiona says after a brief pause. “How does the place look?”

Mickey looks around. The Gallaghers really did a number on the place. Streamers everywhere and sparkly shit Mickey can’t make out. It’s more than anyone’s every done for a Milkovich birthday. Mickey gives a noncommittal grunt of approval.

“I’ll head out.” He says. He notices that it’s just Fiona in the room with him. He hears voices outside and some splashing.

He means he’ll go upstairs and close the door to the boys’ room and go back to bed. Leave the Gallaghers to their celebration. He wouldn’t know what to do with himself at a fucking birthday party anyway.

“You don’t have to, you know.” Fiona says. “You could come out and join us.”

“Yeah, no.” Mickey responds just as quickly. “Don’t think that—”

“No, no, none of that.” Fiona’s heard enough. “You’re welcome here. C’mon. We want you to join us.” Fiona tilts her head to the side a little, narrows her eyes in what suddenly feels like a very maternal look.

“Okay,” Mickey says, mostly to get Fiona to stop looking at him like that. He gets off the couch, shrugs a little. “Okay.”

4

Sometimes it’s not even like, leftover childhood paranoia or whatever. Sometimes he’s just really fucking tired, you know? Is so out of it that anyone in his situation would freak if woken up like that.

He’s got this fucking cold or whatever one night. Back when he lived at the Milkovich home with Svet and the baby. And Ian took care of Yev while Mick and Svet went to the rub ‘n tug. Some weird, domestic fantasy Mick almost let himself believe was possible.

But when babies get sick, that sickness tends to spread to those taking care of them. So that’s how Mickey ends up with a low-grade fever and Svetlana takes the baby from his arms and lets him sleep. Ian’s at work. Mickey tries not to think about that.

He falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow, cold then hot, shivering then sweating. His mind goes to black; he doesn’t dream. His sleep feels simply like floating in darkness.

She gives him two hours before opening the door to his room and placing their screaming baby onto the bed. Yev’s shrill cry cuts through any sleep Mickey had been able to get. He jolts up fast, with a gasp.

“You take baby.” Svet says over Mickey’s curses and rapidly beating heart. “I go to work.”

“Wh—I’m sick!” Mickey tries, running a hand along his sweaty brow. He still feels weak, like all the energy has been drained from his body.

“Yes, and I am pregnant.” Svetlana retorts, gesturing towards her stomach. “This is like every day being sick.”

Right. The surrogate baby. Mickey wants to protest, but Yevgeny crawls towards him, desperate for some sort of comfort, and Mickey scoops him into his arms, hand running circles over Yev’s small back. The baby still looks flushed.

“Fuck, Svet, the fuck am I gonna do with a sick baby?” Mickey says. “I don’t know how to do this.”

Svetlana scoffs. “Then learn,” she says. “I cannot do everything for you.” She adjusts her coat around her shoulders. Gives him one more look. “Orange boy comes back in morning,” she says. “He will help you, then.” It’s meant as a comfort. Mickey’s not sure he takes it as such. The morning was still a long way away.

5

One morning, at the Gallagher home, Lip, Mickey, and Ian are the only ones left at the breakfast table. It’s this thing that the Gallaghers do, have breakfast together. And dinner. And someone makes lunches for everyone else. Used to be Fiona who did all that domestic shit. Now Debbie had some sort of chore wheel. Mickey can’t wrap his head around it all sometimes. Once, Iggy tossed him a Jell-O cup before they headed to school and Mickey threw it out into the street before he even left his block, convinced Iggy had poisoned it.

But here he is, now, drinking coffee a Gallagher had made and eating eggs a Gallagher had scrambled for him.

Mickey mostly keeps his head down during these family meals, uncomfortable in ways he can’t express, in ways he doesn’t want to be. Never quite feeling like he belongs at this table with these people.

“Heard Carl scared the shit out of you this morning.” Lip says, and it takes a moment for Mickey to realize that Lip was talking to him. He’d been staring into his mug, still half asleep, thinking about his PO and the cartel and prison and what the hell he—

“Mick,” Ian nudges him softly. Their chairs are close together. Ian reaches out easily and lays a hand on Mickey’s knee. Squeezes gently. It’s so fucking tender Mickey feels the need to push Ian aside, to prove to Lip that he didn’t need that touch, that Ian’s hand on his knee didn’t make him feel safe, wanted, reassured.

But he doesn’t move. Thinks maybe it’s okay here. Has to always remind himself that the Gallagher home may still be on the South Side, but it’s different here.

Mickey blinks away some tiredness and turns to face Lip. “What about your psychopath brother?”

“That he scared the shit out of you.” Lip repeats easily. “Threw the door open this morning and you jumped down his throat or some shit, whatever he said.” He means it good-naturedly. He’s trying to start a conversation.

“That’s not what happened, fuck you very much.” Mickey says. He scowls into his coffee.

“He wanted to show Mickey and me the new shiv he made. Wanted to get a felon’s opinion on it or something.” Ian explains. His hand rubs some tension out of Mickey’s shoulder until Mickey relaxes slightly.

“Yeah, and he couldn’t fucking wait until the sun was up to do it. What’s with you Gallaghers getting up at the ass crack of dawn, anyway?”

“Pursuing an education?” Lip shrugs. “I’ve got a newborn?”

Mickey scowls again. “So, what, you want me to fucking apologize to the kid or something?”

“Who, Carl?” Lip scoffs. “Nah, he probably deserved it.” He downs the rest of his coffee. “Gonna go check on Fred.”

Mickey watches Lip leave, feeling caught. So Carl had told Lip. So Carl had probably told Debbie, too. There weren’t any secrets in this goddamn house.

“Just don’t wake me up,” he says to no one in particular, exasperated at the fact that it needed to be said at all. “Am I asking too much? Just don’t do that shit.”

Ian nods, patting Mickey on the back. He gets up not long after without saying anything else.

+1

It’s a matter of timing and location, Ian learns.

Mickey isn’t the same as he used to be. So what? They’ve both grown up. Learned to adjust to each other’s faults and strengths. Mickey makes sure Ian’s on his meds, that he’s stable and healthy. The least Ian can do is make sure the man wakes up comfortably.

He wonders, sometimes, where this habit began. Around him Mickey used to be fine. When Ian was at his most manic, he used to wake up Mickey two, three times in the night, hypersexual and full of energy. Mickey rarely freaked out. He notices it more around others, when others try to wake Mickey, or when Mickey falls asleep somewhere that’s not home, that’s not where Ian is. He thinks maybe the problem got worse in Mexico, too, or his first stint in prison. There are years of Mickey’s life that are only patches in Ian’s mind. They’ve known each other since they were kids, and yet Ian feels like he still knows so little about the man he loves. Mickey rarely offers up his memories, anyway, even the good ones.

Since they’ve been out of prison, Ian thinks Mickey’s slept worse. At first it was Carl’s friend’s family at the house that freaked him out, kept him on edge. Sometimes it was any number of car alarms, sirens, or distant gun shots that scattered the South Side on a daily basis. Ian thinks maybe it was just the readjustment. Starting from zero after years either on the run on in the can. Trying like hell to stay on the straight and narrow. All Ian knew was that prison was hard enough for him, and he wasn’t even in the slammer for nearly as long as Mickey. Plus, the whole time, Mickey was there. They protected each other. Mickey didn’t have that before.

So Mickey wakes up tense on the best days and panicked on the worst days. On the good days Mickey’ll be back to his old self after a few seconds of pulling himself back together. On the bad days, maybe after a bad dream or like when Carl burst through the door, Mickey can remain out of joint the whole morning. Ian can only comfort him as much as Mickey lets him.

 _He’s having a hard time readjusting,_ Ian thinks. He says as much to Lip once, when he pulls him aside in search of brotherly advice. But for some reason, none of Lip’s girlfriends has ever gone to prison, even though most had broken the law once or twice. He can tell Lip doesn’t really know what to say. He offers some perfunctory advice about Ian being careful and not getting in the war path of a half-asleep Sergeant Slaughter, which Ian pointedly ignores.

He calls Fiona next. _He’s having a hard time readjusting,_ he says again. She’s more receptive to his concerns. Agrees there’s something to that. Thinks maybe it might have to do with the fact that Mickey’s out in the real world again. Used to be it was a couple slabs of concrete, windowless wall and a bunk bed in one prison cell or another. When that door closes, it closes. No getting in or out. It’s hell but it’s security. Maybe Mickey isn’t used to the openness anymore. Makes him paranoid.

 _I don’t get it,_ Ian had said. _I thought people came out of prison claustrophobic or some shit like that._

Fiona seemed stumped. _Yeah, well,_ she had said after a pause, _that’s what I would think, too._

Ian thinks, if he can just get Mickey to relax, then maybe he’d wake up better. Start his day right.

He starts by making sure he’s in the room before Mickey at night, or, if he isn’t, that Mickey watches him close the door. They both have the same bedtime; they’re out by one most nights. Prison ensured they slept and rose on the same schedule. He tries to do it casually. Brushes his teeth after Mickey and then swallows his night meds back with a glass of water. When he pads back into their room after saying goodnight to his siblings, Mickey’s usually already in bed. Ian will close the door, then, while Mickey watches, pretending not to care. Then Ian pushes the window down and locks it in place. His meds tend to make him sleepy at night, so he’s got limited time to put Mickey at ease while pretending that’s not what he’s doing.

When he slips into bed, Mickey’s waiting for him. Ian settles in on his side, one hand splayed on Mickey’s chest. If it’s an eventful day, Mickey might whisper something to him, some opinion he hadn’t wanted to share in front of others. Most nights Mickey strokes a hand through Ian’s hair, silent. He can be incredibly tender when it’s just the two of them, when all pretenses are gone and the door is closed and Mickey feels secure.

“Good night,” Ian whispers, feeling himself beginning to doze off. He can feel Mickey look towards the door again, making sure it’s closed, and then towards the window, before Mickey presses a warm kiss to the top of Ian’s head.

“Night, Gallagher,” he says. At some point, Mickey’ll slip onto his side, too, and Ian’ll curl against him, arms wrapped around Mickey’s waist. They fall asleep best that way.

One Sunday morning Ian wakes up like this, holding Mickey loosely. They’ve drifted further apart during the night, but Ian’s still got a hand on the side of Mickey’s chest. He blinks and pulls his hand back to run it along his face. The sun is just barely peaking out above the horizon; it’s early yet. Ian has nowhere to be today, and neither does Mickey.

For a moment, Ian watches the rise and fall of Mickey’s chest as he sleeps. He seems content, the tension in his shoulders gone, at least for now. This is a good sign. Ian wants Mickey relaxed.

He tiptoes out of bed, then, to the bathroom, where he pisses and brushes his teeth and swallows back a new round of meds. He splashes some water on his face and returns to the bedroom, shutting the door quietly behind him.

When Ian slips back into bed, he inches closer to Mickey’s sleeping form, daring to press a kiss to the back of his boyfriend’s neck. He doesn’t wake. Ian kisses him again. Rests a hand on Mickey’s hip.

Mickey stirs at this, a slight twitch but nothing indicating he’s on edge. Micky lets out a contented exhale when Ian squeezes his hip, and when Mickey’s hand reaches to press over Ian’s it’s not a fist looking to defend but an outstretched palm, holding Ian in place. _There_ , he seems to say with just a touch. _Stay there._

Ian presses his smile into Mickey’s shoulder blade.

“Mmm,” Mickey says, finally, opening his eyes and smiling himself. “Morning, Gallagher.”

“Brush your teeth,” Ian whispers. “I want to kiss you.”

Mickey huffs out a laugh but moves, slipping from Ian’s grip and pushing back the covers. Ian hears the toilet flush and the faucet run. As he waits, he reaches into his nightstand drawer.

Mickey returns looking tired, but awake. He runs a hand along the back of his neck after he closes the door, glancing at Ian, who’s set the lube and rubbers on the nightstand.

“Oh,” Mickey smiles slyly. “Just wanna kiss me, huh?”

Ian reaches out to Mickey, who slips off his tee as he settles back into the bed, hand coming to rest on Ian’s cheek. Ian leans into the touch. Rests his forehead against Mickey’s.

“You sleep good?” He asks, trying not to sound too earnest. He gives Mickey a moment before pulling back and meeting his gaze.

Mickey knows what he’s asking, Ian can tell. He smiles softly at Ian, runs his thumb along his jaw. He doesn’t answer, exactly, but he nods, and Ian can tell in Mickey’s eyes that he’s being honest. They’re both relieved.

Ian wants to press on. _I’ve been wanting you to wake up easier,_ he wants to say, _I want you to feel safe here. I’ll protect you. Let me look after you for a change._ For once, it’s him who can’t bring himself to break the silence, or the way Mickey’s looking at him like he’s totally gone on him. Because he is.

They lean forward at the same time, lips meeting each other’s softly, almost timidly. These moments are few and far between for the two of them; their style is hard and fast, quick fucks in the dugout or against the kitchen counter, Ian pounding into Mickey and Mickey biting his arm to quiet his moans. This was how their relationship began, after all. Through violence and lust.

Prison was different. Everyone fucks hard and fast in prison. It’s not about love there. It’s about getting off. When they were sick of each other, when the little things would set one off against the other, they would fuck like that, like they used to when they were kids. Other times were different. Sometimes Ian would crawl down from his cot and slip onto Mickey’s, and in the dark they would find each other, touches gentle and thrusts slow. Sometimes when he knew Ian was sick of prison, sick of being locked up and missing his family, Mickey would kiss him so gently that he could feel the tears threatening to leave Ian’s eyes against his cheeks, and he’d trail his hand lower, lower, until Ian could feel how much he cared, how much he loved him.

Ian sighs into the kiss, arms wrapping around Mickey’s chest. They’re facing each other, both sitting upright, and Mickey parts his legs so Ian can fit in between them. They’re both hard already. Ian breaks the kiss and trails his lips to Mickey’s neck. Mickey leans forward, eyes closed, as if any moment Ian could capture his lips again, and he wanted to be ready.

He loves Mickey like this, uncoiling in his arms, breath hitching at his touch. When they were kids and Mickey hadn’t come out yet, these were the only moments Ian had. The moments that made Ian feel like he hadn’t fallen for a lost cause. When they were kids and Mickey would lean into his touch, Ian knew what they had was real. That only he could make Mickey Milkovich, of all people, surrender himself so willingly.

“C’mere,” Mickey whispers, and he tugs Ian away from kissing his neck to tug at his shirt. “Get this off.”

Ian complies, grinning at Mickey and pulling off his shirt. He tosses it to the side and pulls down his boxers.

“There you go,” Mickey says, cheeks flushed. He leans forward, pressing his lips to Ian’s again. Ian’s hands roam as Mickey’s do. They brush against each other as both reach towards Mickey’s boxers, and Mickey breaks their kiss only to push them down. Ian reaches for the lube and Mickey leans back against the wall, letting out a breath and watching Ian.

When Ian works a finger inside Mickey, Mickey leans his head back, closing his eyes at the feeling. Ian works quick, and Mickey is more than a willing partner. When Ian slips a second finger inside Mickey arches forward, grunting and then letting out a laugh.

“God,” he whispers breathlessly, falling back against the wall again. “Fuck.” He’s smiling, deliriously happy. Ian smiles, too, opening Mickey up little by little. His other hand comes to rest dangerously close to Mickey’s cock. Mickey’s breath comes out in a stutter. “Mmm—”

“Kiss me again.” Ian says, slipping a third finger in. Mickey groans, nodding hastily and pushing forward, lips lazily crashing against Ian’s. Reminds Ian of when Mickey’s kisses were sloppy and executed with a singular goal – _get inside me faster_. Of the desperation that comes with a young love shrouded in secrecy. Love me now before it’s too late.

Ian slips his fingers out and Mickey exhales, spreading his legs wider, anticipating what is to come. He knows Ian by now. Presses a kiss to Ian’s lips, then to his neck, sucking there while Ian gets the lube again and puts on a rubber.

“Now,” Mickey says against his neck, breath stuttering, “now, now, Ian—”

And Ian’s pressing inside of him with a moan. Mickey’s jaw slackens and he grimaces at stretch and the fullness. It’s a good pain. It makes Mickey feel alive.

“Yeah?” Ian whispers above him. Mickey opens his eyes and meets Ian’s gaze. His pupils are totally blown, red hair mussed and the longer ends falling forward slightly.

Mickey adjusts so that his legs wrap around Ian’s back. His hands grip Ian’s biceps. He nods. “Yeah,” he says. “What are you waiting for?”

Ian smiles at this, broad and unrestrained, and he pulls out slowly before pushing back in, quicker this time. Mickey hisses through it, and nods again. _Keep going, keep going._

Ian finds a rhythm and his thrusts increase, and Mickey grips Ian harder when Ian pushes harder. When Ian bottoms out they both let out a grunt.

“C’mon,” Mickey grinds out, wanting Ian closer, closer, closer.

They don’t speak much. They fuck like two men who have long before learned each other’s boundaries, what the other likes and doesn’t like. Ian knows when to palm Mickey’s cock and when to start pumping, and Mickey knows Ian likes when Mickey grips him hard with his arms and legs, when Mickey holds him close and they can feel their bodies sliding together, and the unbelievable friction of it all.

Mickey doesn’t usually let Ian fuck him face-to-face. It’s raw. Ian can see every cringe, every grimace on Mickey’s face as he takes in Ian’s length again and again. Ian can see the moment Mickey starts to unravel. Ian relishes these moments. Loves Mickey for letting them see each other vulnerable.

Mickey comes first with a sharp intake of breath, arching forward. He grips Ian’s arms hard, determined to see Ian through, and soon Ian comes too, body stiffening suddenly. He groans, buckling under his release, and falls against Mickey, who’s ready for him. His arms wrap around Ian’s sweaty back and the two lay together, breathing heavily. Ian waits for his vision to clear before he slides out of Mickey. Mickey grunts, shifting slightly at the loss of Ian inside of him.

“Fuck,” Mickey whispers. Ian lets out a breath that’s meant to be a laugh, still splayed on top of Mickey, cheek resting against his chest.

“Love you, Mick.” Ian says, then, breathlessly.

“Yeah. Fuck. Love you, Gallagher.” Mickey says. “Fuck, that was good.”

Ian smiles tiredly. “Yeah? Still got it after all this time, huh?”

Mickey laughs. Rubs his hand along Ian’s bare back and presses a kiss to the top of his head.

“I’m glad you slept well,” Ian says after a beat of silence. “I mean, I’m glad you woke up well.”

“You worried about me, Gallagher?” Mickey tries for sly.

“Yeah,” Ian admits.

“Yeah,” Mickey echoes, smile fading. “Yeah, I know.” He runs a hand through Ian’s hair. “I’m working on that.”

“I know.” Ian says. He lifts his head, shifts so that his arms settle on Mickey’s chest, and he can set his chin on his arms. “I’m here for you, Mick.”

Ian watches Mick, who looks away first before his gaze meets Ian’s again. Ian thinks, now he knows. And Mickey thinks, it’s okay to have him look after me. He thinks, he’s my home now. And there was no reason to be scared. If there was one thing he had learned in his years at the Gallagher house, in his years by Ian’s side in one way or another, it was that the family takes care of each other. They protect each other.

Mickey and Ian would protect each other.


End file.
